


Tears of a Warlock

by Camelittle



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s03e12-13 The Coming of Arthur, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Magic Revealed, Major Character Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-24 17:22:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16179704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelittle/pseuds/Camelittle
Summary: Arthur still hasn't recovered from the major leg injury that he sustained during the events leading up to his defeat of Morgana's immortal army. With the treasonous Morgana vanished, Uther a shadow of his former self, and Merlin away on some errand or another, it falls to Arthur to organise the recovery of the castle. As he struggles to fulfil his duties, the injury worsens and Merlin is forced to consider drastic measures to ensure Arthur's healing.





	Tears of a Warlock

**Author's Note:**

> Fills the "accept injury to protect someone" square on my h/c bingo card (where "someone" in this case is "the whole of Camelot" because yes, Arthur is that stupidly brave and self sacrificing). Written for canon fest 2018. With enormous thanks to the fabulous mods, as always. Thank you for all your hard work! And special thanks to the ever wonderful Tari_Sue for the lightning fast last-minute beta!

~*~

Rain. Relentless rain. It rails against the window, casting cold beads at the glass that coalesce and fall, streaked with grime, as if the gods themselves seek to wash away the dirt and stench of battle.  Arthur sits, grim-faced, upon a makeshift chair fashioned from stacked hay bales with a cape cast hastily across the top, his wounded leg elevated, biting his lip to avoid making any sounds to betray his pain as Gaius removes the dressing. His chambers are still in disarray, but although the chair was smashed to smithereens his desk has been found intact, and there is at least a bed – or perhaps more accurately a cot – in one corner.

“It is still very angry, Arthur,” Gaius admonishes, when finally the bandage is off. “You have not been resting it. The wound is infected. You must take care, for fear it should fester.”

“I don’t have time for rest. Just patch it up, Gaius, and let me get back to my duties.” The swelling around the lips of the wound is an ugly dark red, and a foul-smelling liquid oozes from it.

“I must leach out the source of the ill humours that inflame it first, sire. Now, this may sting a little.” As Gaius applies some sort of salve that makes it burn as if it is on fire, Arthur shifts his weight on his chair and bites his lip to avoid crying out. “It pains you, sire. You should get onto the bed, and I will give you a tincture, to help you sleep…” Deft fingers work the bandage over the dressing.

“Save your supplies,” says Arthur, who has no intention of sleeping, not when there is a castle to reconstruct and a staffing roster to rebuild and supply chains to reinstate. With his father… indisposed… it is Arthur’s duty to restore order. “I will be fine. I have seen worse wounds.”

It is true. Although, what neither he nor Gaius say is that he in every such case he has seen men die of them. Oh, not straight away, but days later when the taint that infects the wound starts to rot and stink, until the flesh blackens and the poison leaches into every muscle and bone, and the victim’s face becomes a rictus that betrays his agonies. It is a horrible death, and one that he would not wish on anybody.

An involuntary shiver passes through him, despite the warmth from the lit fire that stifles all the air in the room. His fever is making his skin pebble. Maybe if he dies, his fever will take him first, which will be a mercy.

But he is not alone. In the aftermath of a terrible battle, injury is an occupational hazard for knights and their entourage. The woods around Camelot are still riddled with bandits. What’s worse, Merlin has been gone for days, on some mysterious mission that Gaius describes as “gathering herbs”. Although Arthur would never admit it, he has become increasingly worried for Merlin’s wellbeing in those lawless woods and this grim weather. If he has asked Leon that his patrols should keep a particular ear open for news of his manservant, well, what of it? A manservant who can perform standard serving duties is one thing, but a trusted friend like Merlin is quite another; everyone recognises that. They don’t need to know about the horrible anxiety that twists and squeezes at Arthur’s gut when he thinks about what might happen to Merlin, out alone in the forest, surrounded by desperate mercenaries. Besides which, the idiot is clumsy at the best of times, and now… Merlin is tired, wrung out from the battle as all of them are. Arthur would not put it past him to stumble and impale himself upon a sharp log or meet some equally inglorious end.

In the meantime, with help from Gwen and the legions of Camelot’s serving staff that she has enlisted, Gaius is working overtime to stitch up wounds and splint broken limbs. Every day, more of Arthur’s knights are brought in on crude stretchers – not to mention the peasants and townsfolk who have suffered under their strain. The last thing that Arthur wants is to be another burden for Gaius to worry about.

“I’m fine. Not a word to anyone.” Arthur says, fighting back another shudder. Fever prickles at the skin between his shoulders. Gritting his teeth he wills it to settle, bending to pull his leather trousers up over the  injured leg. A dart of agony sears through him suddenly, making him hiss. He disguises the sound as a grunt of effort. “We can’t… ah… can’t have the citadel concerned about my health at this time.”

“Alas, sire, I fear you are right.” Gaius sighs and rocks painfully back onto his heels. “With your father in the state that he is…” He straightens his back with an audible click that makes Arthur wince.

“Come, Gaius.” Arthur holds out a hand. Gaius is not as young as he once was, and yet he works round the clock without complaint. “You should rest. Gwen can run things for a while. This battle and its aftermath has been hard on us all…”

“It’s all right, sire.”  Gaius struggles up onto his feet. “I’m stronger than I look.”

Arthur snorts. How many times has he heard that phrase? He sees where Merlin gets it from. His restless thoughts turn back to Merlin, to his earlier ominous advice that Uther’s condition is worsening, and that Arthur may need to take on more responsibilities sooner rather than later. Perhaps Gaius can shed some light on the king’s malady?

“And what of the king? Does Father’s condition continue to deteriorate?” he says. He pulls a face before adding, “Merlin thinks I may have to become regent.”

He’s hoping that Gaius will dismiss the suggestion, but instead Gaius purses his lips, considering. “Your father is a strong man…” he hazards.

“Come, Gaius, you may speak freely.”

“Alas.” Sighing, Gaius rocks back on his heels. “On this occasion, I fear Merlin may be right, sire.”

“Miracles never cease.” Merlin frequently is right, not that Arthur would ever admit it to his face. Damn him. Where is the man? He misses him horribly – misses Merlin’s impudence, his cheerfulness, his complete faith in Arthur’s ability to surmount even the most horrifying obstacle. Above all, he misses his counsel. Gaius is a reasonable sounding board, but lacks the forthrightness that Merlin disguises so endearingly as a mental affliction. Arthur saw through that particular bluff long ago, but it suits them both to maintain the pretence. “Will he be back soon? He talks some sense, occasionally, in among the gibberish. By mistake, of course.”

“I hope and believe he will be back shortly, sire,” says Gaius tightly as he bows. “If that is all? Doubtless there are still many needing my assistance…”

“Indeed.” Arthur waves a hand towards the door of his chambers. It is still on its hinges, unlike many in the castle, but scorch marks bear witness to the display of naked sorcery that accompanied the demise of the army of the undead. “Please. And if you encounter that elusive manservant of mine on your travels, tell him I would have him attend to me.”

“Of course, sire.”

As Gaius starts to shuffle out of the door, Arthur toys with a quill pen, undecided about whether to ask the question that has been eating away at him ever since Morgana and Morgause disappeared. Gaius’s hand is upon the frame when he finally makes up his mind.

“Gaius?”

Gaius pauses with one hand still on the open door, turning with an enquiring eyebrow raised. “Sire?”

“This illness of my father’s. There is no cure?” He knows he can rely on Gaius to be honest, even when delivering unpalatable news.

“None that I know of, sire.” Gaius looks grave. “Alas, it is more often a disease of great age, but it is not unknown for it to strike someone in their prime, like your father. I fear that I have never seen anyone recover from it.”

Swallowing to hide his disappointment, Arthur nods, wondering how to phrase his next question. “But… What of this cup? The one that cured Leon. Might it aid him and other who have been wounded in the battle?”

“The cup of life?” Gaius inhales sharply through his teeth. “It is a dangerous item indeed, sire. Has it been recovered from the rubble?”

“No...” Restless, Arthur struggles painfully to his feet to gaze out of the window. “Merlin said it had probably been destroyed.”

“Such a powerful artefact cannot be destroyed, Sire.”

“If we found it, could we not use it to heal the king, Gaius?”

Far below, a work party of sweat-covered, dirt-streaked men loads fallen masonry onto barrows, their tracks rutting into the mud. As he watches, another bedraggled group of peasants walks towards the citadel, guiding a mule upon which a woman is slumped, pale faced, her head wreathed in blood-soaked bandages. A solemn child of three or four summers stumbles along by the side of the mule, gazing about with round, frightened eyes.

If only he could heal her. If only he could heal them all.

“Your father would never agree to such a blatant use of magic in Camelot,” says Gaius calmly, eyes flicking towards the ceiling as they always do when he is dissembling. Aye, Arthur can read Gaius now. He would be a poor judge of character if he could not spot someone he knows so well being shifty. “Even if he was in his right mind. He would have you disciplined for even considering it.”

“I am not my father.” Arthur’s hand strays to a key at his belt. “And I have known magic be used for ill, yes. But I am sure that the druids meant no harm by curing Leon. I am beginning to wonder if magic is not as corrupting as my father might think.”

Gaius inhales sharply.

“This is treasonous talk, sire,” he says, carefully, closing the door so that the guards outside cannot overhear what they say. “You would be wise to have a care for who might overhear.”

“Perhaps. But as regent I will use whatever means I see fit, for the good of Camelot. And do you deny that there are those who have used magic for good?” He is straying close to a topic that he knows Gaius will evade, but he watches him closely as he speaks, gauging his reaction. “That some of them may have aided us in the battle against Morgana? That there are those who even dwell here, in the citadel, who might be able to wield magic in her defence?”

“Of course there are not, sire,” Gaius swallows, and will not meet his eyes. “Who would be mad enough to use magic under this roof?”

“Who indeed?” Arthur shakes his head. Gaius may be careful with his words, but he rarely lies outright, like that. He would never do so to save his own skin. He is protecting someone.

Arthur has an inkling who that might be.

Anger rises in his gorge. It takes a special kind of idiot to have that little care for his own safety.

“Might such a person be able to wield the cup safely?” hazards Arthur, vaguely hoping that by leaving the questions elliptical, he might derive a direct answer.

“Even if it were found, it would be unwise to use it, Arthur,” Gaius replies, more firmly, dashing that faint hope. “You have seen for yourself the terror that can be wrought by magical objects that are misused by those with ill intent…”  

“But what of those with good intent?” interrupts Arthur. “Those whose will is pure? Those who seek to build, rather than to destroy? What might they achieve?”

“In a place still riven by strife and treachery, how can you be sure who such people might be?” Gaius shrugs. “Besides which, it is said that the cup must only ever be filled with the purest rain or spring water. The scope for contamination is great, and can skew the intended results terribly. It is said that it sees into the heart of whoever wields it, and enacts their deepest desire… Dare you risk it, Arthur? Look into your own heart and tell me that it holds no impure desires that might influence the cup… hmm?”

Thoughts churning, filled with sudden oddly specific images, Arthur gazes at Gaius for a moment or two, before he looks away, ashamed of the heat that rises from his throat to tint his cheeks.

“You see?” Gaius takes his silence as the admission that it is. “Even when used by those whose intent is pure, magical objects are tricky at best. It can only be wielded by a magic user with great strength and subtlety…”

“What if I believe I might be able to find such a person?” says Arthur.

There’s a pause while Gaius regards him with narrowed eyes, as if assessing the level of threat.

“Even then…” Gaius says cautiously, with a shrug that to Arthur’s eyes looks far less nonchalant than the old physician probably hoped. “It is a huge risk to use a powerful object such as this. The old religion ever seeks balance. Where healing is given, who knows what it might take in return?”

He has a point. The druids had said as much.

“Leave the cup where it is, Arthur. Let us seek more scientific methods to ease your father’s condition. And yours. And now, sire, I must see to others. Keep that wound bound, and keep your leg up, if you can.”

“Of course, Gaius.” Disappointed but not surprised that Gaius did not volunteer any further information, Arthur waves at the door. “You may go.”

As Gaius bows and takes his leave, Arthur removes the key from his belt and inserts it into the top drawer of his desk, turning it with a click. He pulls out the drawer. It sticks slightly. He curses, tugging at it until it pulls free.

There, flashing silver-and-gold in the guttering candlelight, is the cup. The cup of life. Lancelot retrieved it for him from the ruins, bound by the strictest rules of secrecy.

Should he use it, or should he secure it, as his father would no doubt demand? It might be better to send it back to the druids, where it can do no more harm. But then again, what if it could be used for the good of Camelot?

His father would want to keep it, so that none other can wield it. But his father is sick, and the pain in Arthur’s leg is worsening by the second. Morgana has a legitimate claim to the throne. Who will defend Camelot against her, if both of them succumb?

There’s a sudden sound, and the door edges open. A familiar pair of scruffy brown breeches reverses through it. An odd sense of relief fills Arthur with warmth.

Merlin is back.

But it would not do to let Merlin know how his leg is worsening. He would fuss and scold like an old hen. Snapping the drawer shut again, Arthur sits gingerly back on his hay-bale chair, and stares at the quill that lies upon his red leather blotter, willing his breaths to come evenly. The movement sends sharp, agonizing spasms shooting through the muscles in his thigh and hip. He bites the inside of his lip, to avoid betraying his discomfort.

“Nice of you to put in an appearance,” he says in a gravelly voice that he barely recognizes. He feels cold, so cold. “I suppose you must have run out of money to gamble in the tavern.”

“Brooding again, sire?” A heavy silver platter balanced precariously between his hands, Merlin nods at the blotter as he walks in. “I thought I could hear cogs whirring.”

“I am contemplating the future of this nation, as well you know,” retorts Arthur, mock-frowning to disguise the affection that always lightens his chest when Merlin pokes fun at him. “Pondering questions that require intellectual rigour and wisdom.”

“Oh, I’ll go and find someone with those qualities then, shall I?” Merlin feints towards the door. “I’d hate you to get a headache. Perhaps Leon…”

“I’ll have you know that I have studied military strategy since I was old enough to hold a quill.” says Arthur. It’s not that he is rising to Merlin’s goading, merely that this is a game that they both treasure in these increasingly rare moments of respite between battles. “Whereas it’s a miracle that you can function at all with nothing but a sliver of spongy pinewood between those unlikely ears of yours.”

“You might want to consider insulting me _after_ I’ve served you dinner.” Merlin chuckles, holding up one hand to stifle a yawn even as he removes the lid from the dish with the other. “Dollophead.”

Smiling fondly as he shakes his head, Arthur contemplates the stale lump of cheese, hulk of bread and dubious-looking broth that is to be his supper, and sighs. “I suppose I’ve eaten worse...”

“Yeah, sorry, all the kitchen staff fled during Morgana’s occupation, so the stores have been depleted…” says Merlin. The forlorn tone of his voice reminds Arthur that no matter how bad the food is that he has to eat, there will be people in his castle who go hungry tonight.

“The sooner we can get the staffing back on an even keel, the better.” Arthur forces himself to take a sip of the broth. Pulling a face, he breaks a piece of bread off and dips it in his soup. He hands the sop to Merlin, who devours it eagerly. “We need a feast. A victory banquet. See to it, Merlin.”

“Wha’? But I’ve just…”

“Without arguing, for once.”

Muttering under his breath, Merlin grabs another handful of stale bread.

 

~*~

The feast has been a success in so many ways – with every quip and jibe, the tension leaches from the shoulders of his men and the depleted group of nobles and courtiers who still linger here, his loyal allies and those who supported Morgana both. Presiding over it with his pain partly dulled by willowbark and poppy, Arthur thinks he has so far managed to avoid betraying the condition of his leg. It is important for the morale of the castle that he remains strong and visible.  

But the candied fruits have only just now been served and Gaius’s potion has already worn off, and he is growing ever more uncomfortable on the hard oak of his throne. As he shifts his weight, an agonizing spasm shoots up his leg, making him hiss as he waits for it to subside. A thin film of sweat makes his palms glisten. He takes a sip of watered down wine in an effort to dull the throb that pounds his head, but the rich taste makes him gag. Although he covers this physical response with a quick cough, he sees Merlin exchange a look with Gaius and realises that there are some who know him too well to be fooled by such tactics.

Merlin lets out a loud, theatrical yawn. “I’m much fatigued, sire,” he says, bowing with uncharacteristic respect. “I beg you, may I be dismissed?

The inquisitive eyes of the court are still upon Arthur as he replies. He draws all the strength he can into his breath.

“You look as if a delicate gust of wind might bowl you over,” he says. “Evidently I haven’t been training you enough.”

“Indeed, sire,” says Merlin, bowing even lower instead of rolling his eyes, which means that he must be concerned.

“All right,” Feigning reluctance, Arthur nods his acceptance. “You may be dismissed. But first you must escort me to my chambers.”

“Of course, sire.” Merlin bows again, this time with an exaggerated swagger that draws the eyes of the assembled courtiers and not a small amount of laughter. Grateful for the distraction, Arthur schools his features into a smile to disguise his wince when he leans heavily on the table, to haul himself to his feet, tensing his jaw against the fire that flares through his wounded thigh.

“Excuse me, gentlemen and women of Camelot,” he hears himself say, as if from far away. “I fear that my manservant is in need of his beauty sleep. All that loafing around in the tavern for days on end must have wearied him tremendously.”

There is a ripple of laughter and a couple of cat-calls from the assembled courtiers, who turn back to their carousing, seemingly unconcerned.

“Come, Merlin. Let us sober you up.” Arthur drapes his arm around Merlin’s sturdy shoulders and somehow Merlin manages to manoeuvre himself into a position where it looks like Arthur is escorting him out of the room. In truth, Arthur by now feels so light headed that he fears he may fall if Merlin stops propping him up. But this banquet is all about appearances, and appearances therefore must be maintained. So Arthur forces himself to smile and put one foot in front of the other, even though each step makes it feel as if daggers are being sent through his thigh, sending shooting pains up through his hip and into his body that make him want to raise his head and howl like a wounded pup.

“Come on, you self-sacrificing clotpole,” murmurs Merlin in his ear. “Not far to go, now.”

The corridors are deserted, so there is no longer any need for subterfuge as Merlin half drags, half carries Arthur to his chambers. When the heavy doors close behind them, Arthur’s leg finally gives out and he slides gracelessly to the floor, eyes fluttering closed.

“You utter nincompoop,” yells Merlin. A gentle arm slots beneath the prince’s shoulders. Merlin’s face is so near that Arthur can smell the wine-sweet taint of his breath. “Rest it, Gaius said. Let it heal, Gaius said. And what do you do?”

Arthur’s breath is coming too shallow to answer. He focuses on taking air in and out through his suddenly dry throat, the guttural sound of his breathing playing a staccato counterpoint to Merlin’s worried scolding.

“Honestly, Arthur, you are like a child, sometimes. Camelot needs you, you twat. Destiny needs you. I need you, gods help me.” There’s a crack in the normally even rise and fall of Merlin’s voice. “How could I live with myself if you died from a simple wound such as this? Gods, Arthur.”

Arthur wants to listen, but blackness is rising up to overtake him. But through the ever-present veil of pain that drags all thought from him, Arthur feels himself almost floating towards his bed where he is placed with meticulous care. There is a touch at his wrist, and then something warm brushes back the hair upon his forehead. When the warmth disappears, he grieves, wishing it to return; if he is to die, he would rather not die alone.

Indecisive footsteps cross the room, hither and thither. A sudden cold draught makes Arthur shiver, his body riven by horrible tremors that jolt his leg and make him moan in pain. When Arthur opens his eyes Merlin is over by the open window. A sudden gust of wind howls through, splattering Merlin with rain.

“Merlin, close the window,” he tries to say, but his lips and tongue are like jelly and it comes out more like “muhh…”

But instead, Merlin leans out of the window. He is holding something. “ _Fultume me, regn, fultume me, teagor, ae…_ ” he whispers. “ _Ic þe þurhhæle þin licsare_.”

When he returns, he is clutching the goblet from Arthur’s desk. His eyes are whirling, the aftermath of magic, blue with flecks of gold, as if inhabited by a constellation, but they brim too with bright tears that drop upon Arthur’s jerkin where he lies.

“You are destined for greater things than this, Arthur Pendragon,” Merlin half says, half sobs. Supporting Arthur’s head with one kind hand, he presses something cold and gold to Arthur’s lips with the other. “You can’t leave me now. Drink. Just a sip now.”

Arthur ignores his warning and drinks greedily. Water slops across his lips and chin as his body jolts, fatigue and fever making him judder violently. It is cold but sweet and pure, with a hint of something else, like salt and sadness. He moistens his lips, chasing the elusive taste. It fills him with an odd sort of longing.

“Come back to me, dollophead,” whispers Merlin. “Camelot is nothing without you.”

“Your eyes,” Arthur whispers through new-moistened lips.

Mesmerised by eyes that are flecks of gold that flicker like ancient flames upon an angry sea, he tries to lift a hand to touch Merlin’s face, but the world goes black. Someone is yelling his name, frantically, it sounds, but the freedom from pain is too seductive, and it carries Arthur with it until he can hear no more.

~*~

“… rainwater, I swear.”

Arthur blinks. The light is too strong, something itches unbearably on his leg, and there’s a familiar yet hysterical voice yelling out a litany of complaints. Is it morning? How long has he slept? He doesn’t want to face the day yet; his bed is warm and comfortable. Instead, he lies feigning sleep, letting the delicious veil of slumber slide across his eyes even as he listens. What is Merlin fussing about now? Honestly, he’s worse than Arthur’s old Nanny, who used to scold him at the slightest provocation.

“Are you sure?” Gaius’s voice is querulous, as if he, too has been roused from slumber. Merlin really needs to be more respectful of people’s need to sleep. Resolving to do something about that Arthur lets his eyes flicker open again. The sun filters through the window, glowing orange. The rain has let up, then. Good.

“I distinctly remember telling you that you must not let _anything_ contaminate the rainwater, Merlin,” says Gaius. “And yet, I see no reason why Arthur should still be sleeping unless you let something drop in there. You did not add wine, perhaps, to make it more palatable? Or honey?”

“Well, no, but… Um…”

Ah, here we go. This is where Arthur’s idiot manservant admits to Gaius that he failed to follow orders, as usual. Clocking this up as another reason to berate Merlin later, Arthur feels an affectionate smile play around his lips. Thank all the gods Merlin returned unscathed from that so-called herb-gathering mission.  

Sure enough…

“There was one thing.”

“Good God. Out with it, Merlin.”

“Well, you have to understand Gaius, I couldn’t let him just die like that.”

“Of course. But what did you do?”

“Well, I was sad. It’s not really my fault.”

“What are you trying to say?” There’s a note of menace creeping into Gaius’s voice. Arthur can’t say he blames him.

“Um. Well, I might have let a tear drop into the cup. With the rainwater, I mean. I thought the tear of a warlock might enhance the power of the cup. I thought it couldn’t hurt. I thought…”

“You thought? Good God, Merlin. I have taught you better than that.”

“What will it do?”

Gaius sighs. “We’ll have to wait for Arthur to wake up before we find out.” As he speaks, his voice is growing nearer. Someone – Gaius, presumably – lifts Arthur’s wrist, and holds the pulse point.

Arthur keeps his eyes firmly shut. He’s learning far too much from this whispered conversation to let on that he’s awake yet.

“He has more colour in his cheeks,” says Gaius. “His pulse is normal. The fever has broken. If I was going to hazard a guess, I would say that he is going to make a full recovery.”

“But what then?”

“Who knows? Your magic… the tears of a warlock, Merlin. Good God. Only you.”

Gaius’s footsteps shuffle away and there is the sound of a door opening.

“I need to get back to the infirmary. Stay here and stand guard over him. If he wakes, call for me immediately.”

“Of course, Gaius.”

The door closes.

Merlin had wept like a girl when he thought Arthur was dying. Arthur can’t help feeling a little gratified at that, but oddly sad as well. He does not like the idea of Merlin crying. He has never known how to react to Merlin’s many and often tortuous emotions. Although, Merlin’s tears in the cup might explain one mystery – the faint tang of salt. But there was some other flavour in there, something that Arthur could not identify. It was sweet and fresh, but not cloying or overpowering. It was like drinking light, as if something pure had entered Arthur’s body and caressed his soul.

 _Love,_ says the silence of his mind. _Love and magic._

And now? Now, he feels… fine. No, not just fine… invigorated. Powerful. Revived. Treasured. _Beloved_.

With one fluid movement, he flings back the covers. He surges to his feet, flexes his arms and neck.

“Arthur!” Pale faced and startled, Merlin looks like he is about to swoon.

With a grin, energised by the thrill of adrenaline and that mingles with the magic that healed him, Arthur stalks towards him and catches him by both shoulders, pushing him up against the wall.

“Merlin,” he purrs. “It appears that you have been hiding things from me.”

“S… sire…?” stammers Merlin, eyes boinging about to avoid meeting Arthur’s gaze.

“Don’t even think about lying to me, Merlin.You’re a sorcerer. You used magic and healed me with your tears.”

“Arthur.” Merlin lets out a whimper, tilting his head back against the wall to expose the long line of his neck. “Gods. I’m sorry, Arthur. You were so sick, I didn’t know what to do. And Lancelot said the cup…”

“Save your apology,” murmurs Arthur, grown reckless with the relief at his healing and giddy with the sudden flush of desire that sweeps over him. Without stopping to question it, he dips forward, breathing into the sweat-slick skin at the base of Merlin’s chin. “Just let me kiss you and all will be forgiven.”

“Oh, Gods,” Merlin moans, low and sweet. “It will be my pleasure.”

“I know.” Arthur presses smug lips to the corner of Merlin’s mouth. It tastes sweeter than the water from the cup, and more heady than any wine. “You’ve dreamt about this moment, haven’t you?”

“Arrogant prat,” gasps Merlin, not bothering to deny it.

“So have I,” confesses Arthur. He chuckles, deep in his throat, and swoops to sweep Merlin from his feet.


End file.
